


will eventually mend

by preromantics



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-12
Updated: 2010-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-08 21:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Brendon would be lying if he said he didn't miss having Ryan around.</i> Post-split.</p>
            </blockquote>





	will eventually mend

**Author's Note:**

> For Amanda. Originally posted on LJ 8/24/09.

Brendon would be lying if he said he didn't miss having Ryan around. Jon, too -- but there's something about staying late in the studio this time around, even after Spencer and all the various sound people have left, and not being able to turn around and find Ryan in the other room, or right beside him. Something about Ryan not being there to help him hash out ideas or to start up an argument from earlier about cord progression or pronunciation.

He can move on, sure. Brendon was perceptive enough to know that the fights and too-rushed words between just him and Ryan were enough for the entire band to grow apart, he just never realized what it would _mean._

It's on an all-too frequent night of staying late in the studio that Brendon does it. He gives in after two months of no speaking other than shouted imput and greetings from his kitchen as Spencer was on the phone with Ryan.

It takes him a minute after he decides, just scrolling up and down over Ryan's name on his phone, kicking off his shoes and curling his sock covered toes into the ratty pillow on the practice space couch.

He almost hangs up when Ryan doesn't pick up after four rings, feelings springing up tight and stupid in his chest while he stares at Ryan's name on the calling screen, the picture of him making a twisted face with bright, humored eyes and it's --

"Brendon?" Ryan's voice is quiet, obviously surprised on the other end and Brendon hates that he sounds that way.

"Hey, hi," Brendon says, after a second. "Uh."

"Yeah," Ryan says. He follows it up with a small sigh.

"So," Brendon says, trying to figure out what had made him call Ryan in the first place, what made him think it wouldn't be awkward. "So, you haven't seen our studio yet, or really heard any of our stuff."

Ryan laughs on the other line. Brendon pretends it's the quaility of the call on his cell that makes him sound so hollow. "No, no I haven't."

"I want -- I think you should come down and listen. You could bring some of your stuff, too, maybe," Brendon continues.

Ryan hesitates on the line. Brendon can hear the crack of his fridge opening, can see Ryan vividly -- standing in the middle of his kitchen in the dark, long pajama pants and a well worn shirt, maybe one of Brendon's shirts that Ryan never gave back, peering into his fridge like maybe it has an answer.

"Sure," Ryan says, finally. "Sure, okay, when?"

Brendon settles back into the couch a little, the tension between his shoulder blades lessening. He wants to see Ryan's face, more than he has in months. Wants to play him music on acoustic, mess around with a melody until Ryan starts humming and have their legs press together again, shoulder's, he wants to trace the line of Ryan's throat and --

"Brendon?" Ryan asks, soft on the other side of the phone.

"Could you, I mean. I'm here now, at the studio. You could come out," Brendon tells him, a little more rushed than he means.

"It's past two in the morning," Ryan says, but there's a tilt in his voice that Brendon can't find dismissiveness in, doesn't want to.

"You're awake," Brendon presses.

Ryan's silent for a good minute. The toe of Brendon's right sock is getting a hole, and he pushes his toe through, watching the threads expand and then give out.

"Is anyone -- " Ryan starts, "Just. Text me the address, I guess."

"So you'll come?" Brendon asks, sitting up on the couch a little more.

"Yeah," Ryan says, just like a word caught on an exhale of breath, "I'll see you in a bit," and hangs up.

-

Brendon tidies up the practice space as best he can, turns the lights on in main recording booth so the dark behind the glass doesn’t look so creepy. He considers calling Spencer, asking him to come out, but then realizes he’s not sure how to explain asking Ryan to come out in the first place.

It’s not awkward, exactly, when Ryan shows up. Brendon hates the word awkward -- it makes everything seem clumsy and bigger than it really is. He’s an awkward person and he deals with that, but this isn’t that sort of thing.

Mostly, Brendon wants to hug Ryan. It’s silly, he should be able to. Brendon always watched his personal boundaries around Ryan, as a perceptive thing, but this feels different, like maybe now he’s being allowed to look again but can’t touch.

Ryan laughs in their silence, low, walks right over to the studio couch and sits. “So,” he says.

“It’s late,” Brendon says, instead of what he wants to, “I didn’t mean too --”

“Don’t,” Ryan cuts in, waving his arm vaguely, “don’t apologize for this. For anything.”

Brendon startles a little, wants to get angry at what he hears that Ryan doesn’t say. If he’s not going to apologize for one thing, it’s the split of the band. He doesn’t need to apologize, he didn’t want it and he didn’t start it and --

“Hey,” Ryan says, standing from the couch and sounding surprised, and Brendon catches his face in the reflection of a glass-incased platinum record on the wall. His mouth is twisted, angry.

He relaxes his face, finds a frown settle along the corners of his mouth.

“Hey,” Ryan repeats, soft, coming close enough to settle a hand on Brendon’s shoulder, thumb swiping along the hollow of his neck, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Brendon tenses under Ryan’s hand. He doesn’t mean to, and Ryan draws his lips into a line.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have,” Ryan starts, pulling back, and Brendon can think of so many endings to that sentence that he just curls his shoulders into himself a little, looks past Ryan‘s shoulder for a second.

“Ryan,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. When he catches Ryan’s eyes, Ryan is looking right at him, a little calculating, a little sad.

Ryan curls his fingers into the collar of Brendon’s shirt, stretching the material and they just look at each other until Ryan lets go, pulling his hand back and turning back to the couch after a moment of hesitation.

Brendon stands there, hands at his side for a minute. Ryan sits on the couch, a definite space next to him, and waits.

-

They don’t talk about it, Brendon gets halfway through a song on acoustic when he finally sits down before Ryan turns his head with two fingers on his chin, right in the middle of Brendon singing. Ryan presses his fingers along the side of Brendon’s jaw and Brendon sets down the guitar, parting his lips just slightly to capture Ryan’s fingers when Ryan swipes along his bottom lip.

They don’t talk at all, even. Ryan presses Brendon down into the couch and drags his lips up Brendon’s throat, hot, and Brendon arches his neck when Ryan bites down, arches up and then grabs at Ryan’s shoulders, sitting them both up and slipping the buttons on Ryan’s shirt off too-fast, popping some off all together and switching them, pushing _Ryan_ into the couch, grinding against him and biting into his lips.

Together they swell like a fight, noiselessly attacking nerve endings and skin but neither of them gets too far. Brendon catches Ryan’s eyes straight on before either of them can get their pants down, and Ryan has a hand tight around the side of Brendon’s neck that relaxes as soon as they look right at each other.

Brendon can feel it when his body gives way, sliding down to the side of Ryan’s body, pressed into the couch cushions.

“I’m --” Brendon starts to say, caught looking at Ryan, at the strange feeling in his gut and his chest.

Ryan leans forward into Brendon’s neck, breathes there and then leans up and kisses Brendon soft and slow, a little hesitant like maybe it’s their first time again, late night in Brendon’s dark apartment, right on the couch with the muffled noises of two different neighbors puncturing the silence of the room.

Brendon kisses him back with all he’s got, all the pent up things he’s been thinking about, all of the good things and none of the bad. He kisses Ryan wet and slow and fully, and Ryan returns it right back until Brendon can’t think of anything but the very real present.

“I told you not to apologize,” Ryan says, slow and low in the dark, pressed right against Brendon on the couch like maybe they never stopped existing together in the first place, like maybe they’ve been pressed against each other all along instead of torn apart. “For anything,” he continues, “You don’t have to, for anything.”

Brendon can’t figure out anything to say. Beyond them the digital clock reads 5am and Brendon wonders if the light is starting to come up outside, if the new day means something different or they’ll just leave and go back to the past couple of months.

“Don’t think,” Ryan says, relaxing the tension spreading up Brendon’s spine with a hand curled around the base of his neck.

“It’s hard not to,” Brendon tells him, a small, hard, laugh behind it, and Ryan leans in and presses his lips -- soft, dry -- to Brendon’s forehead.

Brendon tucks his head into the dip of Ryan’s shoulder after a second, drags his lips along the skin just because in this moment, at least, he’s allowed to. He stays there, breathing on Ryan’s skin and breathing in Ryan’s scent in return.

“Let’s sleep,” Ryan says. He sounds far away but Brendon can very clearly feel him there, can feel him everywhere to the point in some places he’s not sure if he’s feeling himself or Ryan. It’s a good feeling, comforting in the way that memories can be -- sharp and a little painful but warm and comforting nonetheless.

Brendon manages to make a noise of agreement, feels it vibrate up Ryan’s throat, and he burrows in closer with what space the couch allows him and he sleeps and doesn’t think, just let’s his fingers entwined between Ryan’s own between them both wipe the next day from his head and give him just a little bit of hope without a direction.


End file.
